I LOVE MY JOB.

Mama said I did this kind of thing at age 4. HUGE compliment, Mom.

This job is hard. I've come to adore it, but let's be honest--it potentially includes: 3:30 a.m. wake up calls to catch planes, donning "real clothes" (skirts and stilettos, not Nike shorts) for about 12 hours, "Hey! I know I'm just meeting you, but can you give a 30-min. presentation to 75 women on recruitment in like, 2 minutes?," excessive chanting/singing, recruitment number crunching on the reg, people 24/7 (no exaggeration. 24 hours a day. Every day.), and enough staring at Microsoft Word to make my eyes cross.

But it's the best job in the whole wide world. For me.

This kid shows the kind of attitude I'm attempting to bring with me every day.I mean, sometimes I stand in front of a mirror and do the fist-pump-lunge, sometimes I slack. If you Facebook stalk me, you know I posted this YouTube find the other day. But I can't help it. A sister at UGA passed this hysterical video along to me, and it's perfect...

Because to some of the girls, I've gotta encourage from the ground up. To some girls, regardless of how much sleep I'm getting or how I'm doing personally, I'm supposed to be the one that believes in them at 2 a.m. when the scripted lines aren't sticking to memory, the lists from Panhellenic still aren't in, they feel like they're the "only one," and when the little world they've built is crumbling.

And in our Eat, Pray, Love-minded, self-centered kind of world, we've gotta have this kind of confidence. So we can dole out a lot of love. I CAN DO ANYTHING!!! (clap)

UGA and NebraaaAAAaska reports comin' stat. Promise-cross-my-heart.

Saying a-yo, gotta let go.

So one time when it was this weekend we went to a Braves game. This is one of my favorite life hobbies.

Jittery. Nerves. What-in-the-world-did-I-get-myself-into. Excited. My foot is jiggling on it's own accord. Shoulda stopped at the second cup of coffee. I wish you could be in this kitchen right now--we're hysterical. The little house on Ponce is emptying itself of a group of 7 women: I leave for UGA in precisely 30 minutes. My first real job. I don't get nervous, I don't let 'em see me sweat. What is this...?

I can't even concentrate.

I can't even write.

My eyes can't sit still. God was probably laughing as I stumbled through Habakkuk this morning, willing my mind to stay put on one subject for longer than .2 seconds. This is the only thing that stuck:

The Sovereign Lord is my strength.

He makes my feet like the feet of a deer,

he enables me to go on the heights.

Habakkuk 3:19

Welp, I'm gonna go stand on the heights now. And meet a gazillion people I don't know and smile and be "on" 24/7. I'll be back, Atlanta. You rule.

Here goes nothin'. Go dawgs.

Post title: Dynamite by Taio Cruz. Current anthem.

Tailgating is a lifestyle.

First of all, I got my first pay check last weekend. And what'd I buy? Workout clothes. An oversize American Apparel t-shirt. Leggings with neon blue zippers up the ankle. Welp, so much for being a grown-up.

Next purchase? It's LC tradition to buy a souvenir from every university you visit. So, what do I want 30 of? (Besides tennis skirts and bathing suits and Tory Burch shoes.)

Option A: I was gonna do charms for my bracelet. 30 charms. Until I realized no one wants to hear jingle bells until the 24-hour window between Christmas Eve and Jesus' birthday. Option A was nixed.

So I moved to Option B: Koozies or Tervis Tumblers. With my already-substantial collection of both, I've recognized two perks:

1. They're not noisy.

2. I'll be tailgating for the rest of my life so this is really quite practical of me.

But which item? Both?

Y'all have any other ideas?

Daddy's requested a t-shirt from each school. He's pretty pumped about his Huskers shirt. Except when I got relocated to University of Georgia for my 1st visit (next week!), my iPhone immediately blows up with this text:

"Hey, by the way---I'll pass on the Georgia t-shirt. Know what I mean?"

WDE to that, Daddy. I shan't be bringing my UGA Tervis to the Stallings family library lawn tailgate. Promise.

It makes no sense.

If I could tell you why I took this job in 8 lines, there you have it. I don't really know why I'm here except I was commanded to be. And because 25 cents an hour is a huge draw. Duh.

I'm one of those in-love-with-love people.

(Chyeah. Not the romantic kind, people. That'll be fun one day though I'm sure.)

I'm fascinated with how God built love.

How he made it to be a reflection of a salvation story.

But then we grabbed it. Then we twisted that redemption mirror into snobby ignorance of the ugly and the homeless and the brokenhearted.

We turned it into The Bachelorette.*

* Not that I won't be watching tonight. Just proving a point.

Huh. How'd that happen?

So I was thinking about it yesterday. What it really means to love. And this wound up on the pages of my journal:

Messiest handwriting ever. Good thing God can probably read it.

It doesn't make sense at all to love. Like, at ALL. If you really think about what it really means. It's kinda the most preposterous, unsafe thing you could ever do with your life. I mean, the you-might-get-burned rate of playing in traffic is probably lower than extending biblical love to someone.

But that's the fun in it.

We trust in the "and it never fails" part.

And we go for it.

Why not?

Slow down. Be still. Let go. We will. Be here. Be now.

If you choose to love / to know that the call / is give all that you are

To give love away.

Rise, rise. People of love rise. And give yourself away.

- Robbie Seay Band. Thank you Pandora, which I listen to on the reg each a.m.